Enivré en France
by HugePedlar
Summary: Can Clark get drunk? Licensing laws in Kansas prevent us from finding out...
1. One

**Enivré en France**

_Disclaimer:_ I don't own any of the characters in Smallville, but I'd like to own Chloe.

'I can't believe we're going to France!' exclaimed Chloe. 'I mean, I know we're studying agriculture, but do we really need to go on a field trip all the way to France?'

Chloe, Pete and Clark were standing in the hallway between classes, having just been informed by Mr Reynolds that their field trip this Fall would be to the wine-making region of the Dordogne in France.

'What's the matter, Chloe?' asked Clark, puzzled, 'I would have though you'd be stoked at the idea of a foreign trip.'

'Yeah to Paris, maybe, or Marseille. But the Dordogne? Nothing but farms and villages that make Smallville look like Metropolis. The only signs of life are old men in berets carrying baguettes.'

'Oh come on, Chloe! We're gonna be visiting a winery. That should be fun, at least,' said Pete, grinning and rubbing his hands.

'A winery?' said Clark. 'I think they call them vineyards, actually Pete.'

'I don't care what they call them,' pouted Chloe. 'I'd still rather go someplace where they've heard of the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first.'

'Hey, stop whining, Chloe…' Pete said, smirking.

Chloe and Clark looked at him pointedly.

'Stop "whining"?' they said in unison.

'Pete, man' said Clark patronisingly, 'I think you need to work on your puns a little. But he's right,' he continued at Chloe. 'I think this trip could be really neat.'

'Neat, Clark?' said Pete, ready for round two. 'Neat…? Dude – the nineteen thirties called. They want their lingo back.'

Before Clark could reply, Chloe retorted, 'Pete – JD and Turk called. They want their lines back.'

'Huh?' said Clark, looking from Pete to Chloe and back again.

'You so stole that joke from Scrubs, Pete!' Chloe said accusingly, as the bell sounded for next period.

'Oh yeah?' said Pete, unrepentant of his plagiarism. 'Scrub this!'

And with that he tapped out a short bongo rhythm on Chloe's cheeks before bounding off down the corridor to class.

Chloe, stone-faced, watched him go, then turned to Clark and raised an eyebrow.

'I think,' said Clark carefully, 'that Pete's quite excited about the trip.'

*     *     *

'Yes, Monsieur Ivrogne. It's the best I can do, I'm afraid.'

John Reynolds was hunched over his desk, supporting his head in one hand and spending a not insubstantial portion of the school's budget on an international telephone call.

'I know what the deal was, but I can't take any more time off. This is the only way I can get there. It's only a bunch of kids. They'll be no problem at all.'

He paused, and tapped out a rhythm on his temple.

'Oh, I don't know. Don't you have a barn we can put them in? Give 'em a few bottles of wine to keep them out of trouble?'

At this point Reynolds had to hold the receiver some distance from his ear.

'Yes… Yes… Okay. Fine. We'll sort something out. Don't worry about it. If you want me to bring the new yeast preparation you'll have to put up with some inconvenience.'

Another pause. Reynolds sighed.

'Yes, I do know what you're paying me, but like I said, it's the best I can do. I'll make it up to you.'

He looked up at the ceiling and studied its paintwork carefully.

'Yes, Okay. I'll see you then, then… Au revoir to you too, you belligerent French bastard,' he replied after he'd put the receiver down.


	2. Two

**Two.**

The sign above the Talon read: "Café au Late: Now Open 'Till 10:00" because Pete had been helping Lana with her slogans. Inside, Clark, Chloe and Pete were gathered round a table finishing an assignment - because a public coffee house, full of people and music, is naturally the best place to study.

'So Clark,' said Pete, turning from his upside-down textbook, 'You managed to get your dad's permission?'

'Of course,' replied Clark, noticing Pete's sceptical expression. 'I just said to him, I said "Dad – Pete and I, you know, we're just the good ole boys. Never meanin' no harm".'

At this Chloe looked up from her work and raised another eyebrow.

'Oh purlease,' she said. 'You've been in trouble with the law since the day you was born!'

'Hey, what's with all the Hick Talk?' said Lana, approaching with another round of caffeine infusions.

'Oh, nothing,' said Clark, colouring a little. 'Besides,' he said, turning accusingly to Chloe. 'I've only been in jail twice…'

'Heheh,' chuckled Pete. 'Look at Bad Boy Clark here!'

'Well at least I never held a gun to someone's head,' returned Clark.

'Hey man, you know I don't remember that. It was all that stupid flower's fault,' said Pete, a little quietly. 'Besides,' he said mockingly, 'I seem to remember someone getting into a bar fight and decking three guys, hmmm?'

'Yeah well, I wasn't feeling myself,' mumbled Clark. 'Hey, Lana,' he said, quickly changing the subject. 'You're coming too, right?'

'Well, you know I work an eighty hour week at the Talon…' began Lana.

'Oh come on, Lana,' said Chloe. 'You have to come – you do realise if you don't you'll be stuck at home alone with my dad.'

Lana paused to consider this momentarily.

'Come on, Lana,' pleaded Clark. 'It won't be the same without you.'

'Oh….. Oh, alright then,' she conceded. 'I guess it could be fun. I might learn something from all those cafés they have over there.'

Pete groaned quietly. 'Somebody save me,' he muttered under his breath.

*     *     *

The principal was not overly fond of John Reynolds, not least because they shared a surname. It was his opinion that the school wasn't big enough for two Reynolds. It didn't help that John Reynolds was a weasely, ingratiating rodent of a man, in his opinion. The principal felt that any man called Reynolds should be a big, no-nonsense, authoritative figure, like himself. He was aware that some of his students referred to him as Principal Asskick. He publicly frowned upon the use of nicknames, particularly when used by students against teachers. But, he had to admit, privately he rather enjoyed his own moniker. 

Principal Asskick, straight backed, stiff necked, walked into Reynolds classroom. Reynolds, wide-eyed, looked up from his desk abruptly and slammed his drawer shut.

'Principal,' he smarmed. 'What can I do for you?'

Asskick frowned at Reynolds down his broad, flat nose. Reynolds' nose, Asskick felt, was unpleasantly long and snout-like. Likewise his chin receded into a scrawny neck, where his adam's apple bobbed nervously up and down.

'I must tell you, Reynolds,' Asskick never called his staff by their first names. Those who had earned his respect he prefixed with "Mr" or "Ms". Needless to say, Reynolds had remained "Reynolds". 'I'm not entirely happy with this French field trip you've planned for the students this year. It's quite irregular.'

'I, er, thought I'd give the kids a bit of a change, get them to see a bit of the world, kind of thing,' stammered Reynolds.

'A bit of a change is one thing,' Asskick told his invertebrate colleague. 'Taking them to a foreign country is quite another. The school's budget is stretched enough as it is. How do you expect us to fund such an extravagance?'

Reynolds licked his dry lips. 'I, er, as a matter of fact Mayor Tate, er, was rather receptive to the idea. He's agreed to provide the extra funds we, er, might need.' He swallowed nervously.

I bet he did, thought Asskick. And what did you use to bribe him, I wonder? Some duty-free champagne? 'I'll be watching you, Reynolds. I want to see the details of the students' accommodation, and I expect to see a full itinerary on my desk by tomorrow. This isn't going to be a free holiday, Reynolds. Those kids will still have to work. And if anything happens to them,' he added as he made to leave the room, 'you'd better be prepared to put up with crepes and croissants for more than a week.'

*     *     *

'Café au late?' smirked Lex as he took a seat between Clark and Chloe. 'Very droll. Lana's been working on her puns, I see.'

'Actually it was Pete's idea,' said Clark. 'But I don't get it.'

'Geez, Clark. It's simple enough,' grumbled Pete. 'Café au _lait_,' he wrote it down as he said it, 'is French for "coffee with milk" – like a latte. Café au _late_,' again he wrote it down, 'is obviously a play on words. Honestly, man,' he sighed and shook his head. 'The joke doesn't _work_ if you have to explain it.'

'Don't sweat it, Pete,' soothed Chloe. 'Not everyone is as uncultured as our Clark here.'

Clark pouted, or at least made a half-hearted attempt to do so.

'Awww, Clark,' Chloe condescended. 'You can't help it if you chose to study Spanish instead of French, can you dear?'

'Dear…?' said Clark, looking for something to throw and trying not to grin. '_Dear?_'

'So I hear the Smallville Posse is off to France next week,' Lex interjected loudly.

'Yeah, pretty neat, huh?' said Clark, and glared at Pete just in case. 'It's for our agricultural course. We're going to study winemaking.'

'Really?' said Lex. 'I'm sure that'll be very….. "Educational",' he smirked. 'Whereabouts in France are you going?'

'The Dordogne,' said Chloe. 'Bergerac. Or at least,' she added with a frown, 'one of the tiny villages near it.'

'Bergerac?' said Lex, puzzled. 'Far be it from me to second guess your teachers, but I would have thought Bordeaux would be more appropriate for studying wine production.'

'Typical,' said Chloe. 'Mr Reynolds never was the sharpest tool in the box. It figures we'd be going somewhere like that.'

'Reynolds?' asked Lex, surprised. 'This was Principal Reynolds' idea?'

'No, not Asskick,' replied Clark distractedly. 'Another Reynolds – a teacher.'

'_Asskick??_' cried Lex, spraying his coffee over the table. 'Clark! That's just… _Asskick…?_' He paused to catch his breath. 'That's marvellous. I guess some things never change,' he chuckled.

**A/N:** _Thank you everyone who's read so far. Keep the reviews coming, and I'll see if I can get the plot moving on a bit soon._


	3. Three

**Three.**

Clark had been trying not to think about it. Every time his thoughts had approached the topic in the last week he would immediately switch to something less terrifying. But now it was too late. He could put it off no longer. Cold sweat formed on his brow.

He was sitting in the departure lounge of Metropolis Airport.

It was, of course, a phobia. He knew his was an irrational fear. Plenty of people had irrational fears of flying and of heights. Still, the irony had not escaped him that his fear was less rational than normal. What harm could possibly befall the Invincible One?

Yet still he sweated, still he gripped and, inevitably, broke the arms of his chair.

'Hey, Clark man,' called Pete, walking up with a soda in his hand. 'What did the chair ever do to you?'

Clark looked up and gave Pete a sickly smile.

'Whoa, don't tell me you're still afraid of heights,' Pete said in disbelief. 'Dude,' he whispered. 'You're invulnerable. What are you scared of?'

Clark had often questioned himself about his fear of heights. The only explanation he could come up with was a pathetic piece of pop-psych about crashing to earth in a spaceship. Well, it was as good a reason as any. He told Pete.

'Well, that's as good a reason as any,' Pete replied, mirroring Clark's own thoughts. 'Either that or you're just a wuss.' 

'Yeah, thanks Pete,' muttered Clark. 'Thanks.'

'Uh oh,' said Pete. 'Better pull yourself together, man. Two hot babes approaching at three o'clock. You don't wanna let them see you bricking yourself.'

Clark took a deep breath and attempted to calm himself as Lana and Chloe wandered into view.

'Oh my god this is so cool!' breathed Lana. 'I've never been on an airplane before.'

'Uh, heheh, yeah,' mumbled Clark. 'Cool.'

'Don't tell me the fearless Clark Kent still has a phobia,' teased Chloe. 'It must be terrible being so tall.'

'Har, har,' said Clark as Pete tried to suppress a giggle.

'Awww, come on Clark,' Chloe tried to reassure him. 'There's nothing to it. I've flown hundreds of times. It's the safest way to travel.'

'And,' added Pete helpfully, 'If we do crash down in the middle of the Atlantic, it's nice to know that Clark's our Smallville High swimming champion.'

Clark threw the arm of his chair at him.

*     *     *

There were twenty-seven students in all. They took up a section of the plane to themselves. Clark and Pete sat behind Chloe and Lana. Pete waited until everyone had been seated and were quiet.

'Clark,' he announced loudly. 'I am _not_ going to hold your hand!'

Clark coloured as people turned in their seats and sniggered.

'You're gonna pay for that, later,' he said quietly. 'You just wait.'

The take-off was smooth and unremarkable, as was the Atlantic. The flight proceeded uneventfully until they approached the Aéroport de Bergerac, whereupon Clark was markedly discomfited to learn that a storm was holding steady over the airport. The pilot announced that they would be experiencing some turbulence on their descent.

As the plane began to rock and shake, Clark crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. _We're not going to crash, we're not going to crash_. The plane descended in fits and starts and he felt his seatbelt tighten across his lap. He was brought out of his mantra by a hand pushing down on his shoulder.

'Clark!' hissed Pete. 'Stop doing that!'

'Stop doing what?' Clark responded without opening his eyes.

'Floating!'

Clark opened his eyes and turned to see a wide-eyed Pete staring up at him. He looked down and immediately dropped six inches into his chair with a thump.

'What the f-'

'Shhhhh!' Pete insisted, looking around furtively. 'Don't draw attention. I don't think anyone saw you.'

'What the hell happened, Pete?' Clark pleaded.

'Don't ask me. You're the one with the super powers. But if you're gonna start flying,' he advised, 'don't do it in a confined space.'

*     *     *

Clark lost himself in an introspective daze as they disembarked the plane and boarded the coach. He failed to notice the dusk covered French countryside as the coach made its way along the narrow winding roads to their destination. He was only brought out of his silent reverie, after they had been shown to their sleeping quarters, by a singularly loud and distressed voice.

'What the hell is this?' The voice, it turned out, belonged to Chloe. 'There's no _way_,' she insisted, 'that I'm gonna be _sleeping_,' she huffed, 'in a god damn _barn!_'

**A/N:** _Poor Chloe. I would have put this chapter up yesterday, but ff.net was having none of it. Sorry I couldn't get Lex there, but he had business commitments in Smallville. I tried to persuade him but he wouldn't listen. Hopefully Chapter 4 will be a bit longer, and up soon._


	4. Four

**Four.**

The autumnal evening air was sweet and musty. Crickets sounded their metallic songs from the fields. A handful of late butterflies greeted the night-moths as they congregated above the ageing oak barn door. Inside, the musk of old grapes and damp wood greeted the travellers as they peered into the lamp-lit interior. A series of threadbare, sprung-loaded camp beds had been placed in rows along the two longest walls. The floor consisted mostly of sawdust and straw. Much of the space not taken up by the beds was filled with variously sized barrels and assorted farm equipment.

It was not, in short, Chloe's ideal image of holiday accommodation. 

'I can't believe this is where we're staying,' she said, looking from side to side in disbelief.

'Come on, Chloe,' said Clark gently. 'It could be worse.'

'Listen up, farm boy,' said Chloe sharply. 'You might be happy living and sleeping in a barn. I for one prefer my creature comforts. Not,' she added, batting away an errant moth, 'sleeping with them.'

Pete started to cough uncontrollably.

'You _know_ what I mean, Pete!' snapped Chloe, and rolled her eyes.

And unfamiliar voice behind them caused them to turn around.

'Zees eez where you will be staying for zer duration of your 'oliday, children,' announced a heavily accented French drawl. It belonged to a short, round barrel of a man who presented himself from behind an inappropriately large moustache. ''Alf of you will be sleeping in zis building 'ere. Ze ozzer 'alf will find your beds in ze adjacent room. My name,' he continued, 'is Monsieur Ivrogne. Any problems you may 'ave will be dealt wiz in zer morning. Bonsoir, mes petites amis.'

'Patronising French bastard,' muttered someone as their host walked away.

'Heheheh,' someone else giggled. 'Ivrogne? The owner of this vineyard is called Ivrogne? That's just too funny.'

'What's funny about that?' Clark turned to Pete.

'Don't ask me,' Pete replied. 'My level of expertise extends to asking for a cup of coffee.'

The time difference meant that even by midnight there was little chance of anyone sleeping. After unpacking their belongings and defining their personal spaces, most of the people in the first barn, including Clark, Chloe, Lana and Pete, were sat in small groups chatting. Near the middle of the room a young lad, Trevor Steel, was idly strumming his guitar. It was a large instrument to have brought on the plane, but he'd managed to fit it into his luggage by packing only one change of clothes, a choice that he stood by but would later probably regret.

'Eeewwwww! That is so gross!' exclaimed a girl who had just entered the barn accompanied by the unmistakeable smell of the country. She was leaning against a wall and holding her foot up to examine it. A few faces turned to look and snigger. 

'Well at least,' said Pete to Chloe, 'you haven't got it as bad as poor Virginia over there. It's gonna take more than a couple of squirts of Obsession to disguise _that_ odour.'

A series of hurried mutterings were heard coming from the group in the middle of the room, followed by the clearing of throats. Trevor began to strum his guitar loudly and broke into song, accompanied by close harmony ("close" in the sense of them all singing more or less the same tune) from his friends.

'Oh, come on,' they sang, 'come on down, sweet Virginia.'

The other occupants of the barn turned to watch.

'Come on, honey child, I beg of you.'

A few people started to laugh and clap.

'Come on, come on down, you got it in you.'

Virginia froze. All eyes were now on her. She knew how this song was going to end.

'Got to scrape that shit right off your shoe!'

The "band" stopped playing and collapsed into uncontrolled laughter. Cries of "Encore!" were made amid the applause. Someone produced a harmonica. Someone else dragged a couple of small barrels into the middle of the room to serve as a drum kit. The band began to play.

'Wading through the waste stormy winter,

'And there's not a friend to help you through.

'Trying to stop the waves behind your eyeballs, 

'Drop your reds, drop your greens and blue.'

Someone, eager to be labelled as a cliché shouter, cried, 'Yee-Haw!'

'Thank you for your wine, California. 

'Thank you for your sweet and bitter fruits. 

'Yes, I've got the desert in my toenail, 

'And hid the speed inside my shoe.'

'Come on, now!' Everyone in the room joined in.

'Oh come on,'

'_Come on!_'

'Come on down,'

'_Come on down!_'

'Sweet Virginia!'

'_Vir-gin-ee-yaah!_'

'Yeah, Come on,' Strum, strum.

'Honey child,'

'I beg of you,'

'_You, you, you,_'

'Oh yeah, Come on,'

'_Come on now!_'

'Come on down,'

'_Right on down!_'

You got it in yer!'

'_Yeah, yeah, yeah…_'

'Got to scrape that,'

'Shit!'

'_Shit!_'

'_Shit!_'

'_Shit!_'

'Right off your shoe-_you-oo-hoo!_'

And not a drop of alcohol had yet been consumed.

***

Reynolds set down his glass and savoured the rich, fruity warmth of the wine before swallowing it. He paused to appreciate the resonant aftertaste before breathing out and leaning back in his chair.

'As you can see,' he said, letting the wine work its magic inside him. 'I have followed through with my end of the bargain. You will no doubt appreciate,' he smiled, 'the need for some considerable, ah, _discretion_ in bringing it here.'

His two companions nodded their understanding. All three were sat in the drawing room of Monsieur Ivrogne's villa. Ivrogne himself was sitting opposite Reynolds across an elegant eighteenth century mahogany dining table. Next to Ivrogne sat an Australian by the name of Joe Fennel. Fennel was, to Reynolds, a typical Australian, short of having corks dangling from a wide-brimmed hat. He was reminded of a quote he'd read by some author, Douglas Adams perhaps, that seemed rather apt.

'_Every country is like a particular type of person. America is like a belligerent adolescent boy, Canada is like an intelligent thirty-five-year-old woman. Australia is like Jack Nicholson. It comes right up to you and laughs very hard in your face in a highly threatening and engaging manner._'

But, he had to admit, the Australian wine industry was thriving. And he needed Fennel's promise of investment. He'd already secured Mayor Tate's financial input, and a few other contacts had made their interest known. As long as Ivrogne kept his side of the deal and allowed his facilities to be exploited, and assuming the procedure worked as well as it had in the lab, they would all end up absurdly rich.

Yes indeed. He let himself sink into the upholstery of his chair and allowed his thoughts to soak up the alcohol in his bloodstream. The heat from the fireplace behind him cushioned his back, and he felt good. If only those damn kids didn't need looking after, all would be well in the world.

**A/N:** _Sorry it's been over a week, everyone. I've had trouble finding the time and inclination to sit down and write. Thanks for all the reviews – they're very encouraging. Becs: I know the budget seems unfeasible, but remember our favourite corrupt mayor. He didn't provide the funds out of the goodness of his heart. The song, by the way, is of course "Sweet Virginia" by The Rolling Stones._


	5. Five

**Five.**

Clark reached out from his bed and smashed his alarm clock to pieces. Except that it wasn't his alarm clock. And it was still ringing. And it sounded quite different.

He decided it might be worth his while to wake up a bit more and engage his higher brain functions. This turned out to require some considerable effort, and he gradually arrived at the conclusion that he probably shouldn't have bothered.

The ringing sound, it turned out, was coming from a hand bell in the possession of Mr Reynolds, and his alarm clock revealed itself to be the shattered remains of Pete's personal stereo. 

_Uh oh,_ thought Clark. _This is not a good start to the day._ And it wasn't about to get a whole lot better. He looked at his watch to discover that the time was seven o'clock. Three and a half hours sleep does not make for a happy Kent.

'Rise and shine, kids!' Hollered Reynolds excessively cheerfully. 'This ain't no holiday, people! We've got work to do!'

He was met with an assortment of groans and mutterings. Someone made a half-hearted attempt to throw Virginia's shoe at him.

'Ugh. What the hell time do you call this?' mumbled Pete, rolling over in his own bed to face Clark, eyes half closed.

'Dunno about you,' said Chloe, lifting herself to a sitting position, hair even wilder than usual. 'But I call it one o'clock at night, Smallville time.'

'This,' sighed Lana, 'is unreasonable.' Clark felt an additional awakening at seeing her in pyjamas before Pete drew his attention away.

'Oh my god!' he cried. 'My stereo! Man, Clark. You're gonna _pay_ for that!' And he jumped off his bed and threw his entire weight behind a fist that pounded squarely into Clark's gut.

'Oh no, Clark. Are you alright?' gasped Lana, as she and Chloe rushed to his bedside in concern.

'Heheh,' chuckled Clark. 'I'm fine, ladies, thanks for your concern,' he grinned. 'Me and Pete do this all the time, don't we Pete? He didn't really hit me, just looked like it.'

'Yeah, of course,' grinned Pete cheerfully, hiding the tears of pain as he tried to bend his fingers back into shape.

*     *     *

'Now your first task of the day is a simple one,' Reynolds announced once they had gathered outside in the courtyard. The sun had not long risen and the autumnal morning air was still damp. 'As you know, it's harvest season. And you, my friends, are the harvesters. All you have to do is collect all the grapes from this field - ' he motioned towards the vast expanse of vines behind him, ' - and the next. After that, the rest of the day is yours to do with as you wish. Can't say fairer than that, eh?'

By way of a response he was greeted with a stony silence.

'Rest of the day my ass,' muttered Pete, as Reynolds walked off. 'We'll be lucky if we finish the _first_ field by the end of the day.'

'Well,' said Clark cheerfully. 'Let's get picking,' and winked and Pete.

The hours passed, the sun rose, and hunger grew. Pete sated his by stuffing his face with grapes. By working flat out the class had managed to harvest nearly three-quarters of the first field by midday.

'My fingers hurt,' complained Lana.

'Tell me about it,' moaned Chloe. 'I'll never be able to type again.'

'Pssst, Pete,' Clark whispered. 'Keep the girls occupied for a minute, would you?'

'Sure thing, Clark,' grinned Pete, as Clark disappeared.

Two minutes later Chloe looked over to see Clark sitting on the ground, dropping grapes into his basket, and whistling.

'What are you so cheerful about?' she said.

'Oh nothing,' replied Clark. 'Except I just went and looked at the other field and it seems someone's beaten us to it.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's already been done. Reynolds must have overlooked it,' said Clark innocently. 'Seems we might be out of here in an hour or so.'

One hour later the gang were walking down the main street in the nearest village, ten minutes walk from the vineyard. The crowds of people were noticeable by their absence. Indeed, the only signs of life that could be seen were a small dog, a pigeon, and an old man wearing a beret and carrying a baguette under one arm. Chloe bit back a sarcastic comment.

They wandered into the nearest café, which turned out to be more of a bar. Inside they found a pool table, a couple of fruit machines and a miniature soccer table.

'My shout, guys,' announced Pete, and strode up to the bar. 'Deux vins blancs et deux leffes, s'il vous plait,' he said to the young barmaid in his best French accent.

'Pete?' hissed Lana. 'We can't buy alcohol!'

'Lana,' said Pete calmly. 'How old are you?'

'Sixteen–' began Lana.

'And what is the legal drinking age in France?'

'Erm…'

'Sixteen!' said Pete triumphantly. 'It's perfectly legal, and I think it's our duty to properly sample French culture.'

'Well,' said Chloe. 'He's got a point, Lana. When in Rome… Or Petiteville as the case may be.'

'Hmmm,' said Clark, balancing legal issues in his conscience. 'Oh well, what harm can one beer do?'

'Ahhhhh,' sighed Pete, taking a sip from his half-litre glass. 'Tastes of honey! Interesting. They don't brew 'em like this in Kansas.'

'And how would _you_ know?' demanded Chloe.

'I have older brothers,' Pete replied by way of explanation.

*     *     *

The vat was full. In the normal course of events the yeast would be poured down the feed pipe and left to work its quiet fermenting magic for a number of months. Apart from the growing of the grapes it was the most time-consuming procedure in the wine-production process.

With any luck, that would change.

Reynolds, Ivrogne and Fennel were standing in the vineyard's brewery, overlooking a large vat of newly crushed grape mulch. Everything was ready for the addition of the yeast.

Reynolds took a tiny scoop of his precious irradiated yeast preparation and tipped it carefully into the feed tube, where it would slide down into the mulch and begin its catalytic transformation.

'It's done,' he said quietly, and stepped back. Ivrogne and Fennel gulped slightly and continued to stare at the vat.

The seconds passed. No one said a word.

Gradually the silence was replaced by a hollow murmuring. The deep, resonant sound of thick bubbles growing and bursting emanated from the depths of the vat. Condensation began to form on the metal sides of the container.

Reynolds became aware of a faint vibration underneath his shoes. His eyes widened as he saw the vat begin to shake. The grumbling noise was becoming more of a dull roar.

Sweat formed on Ivrogne's brow. As the vibrations increased a metal support rod broke free of its mounting and clanged to the floor.

The three men looked wide-eyed at each other and, as one, fled the building.

*     *     *

It was late in the evening yet, despite being full, the sleeping barn was not being slept in.

Someone had discovered the wine cellar next door.

It could be said by some that Ivrogne was somewhat careless in leaving the door to the wine cellar wide open for all to see. Others might see it as an attempt to keep a horde of kids occupied while he attended to more important matters. Occupied, however, does not always equal Out Of Trouble.

When the gang had returned from the bar/café they had only intended to sample a few glasses of wine from the dozens of bottles that had been opened. Were it only so simple, there would have been no problem. However, glasses were in very limited supply, and those kids not drinking straight from the bottle were forced to resort to coffee mugs.

A mug can hold a surprising amount of wine.

It would be wrong to fill a mug and then not finish it, the reasoning went. And there were so many different wines. And, as every inexperienced drinker discovers, the more you drink…. Well, the more you drink. The technique of pacing oneself is one that takes time, and practice, to learn.

'Oh my god,' said Pete, trying to resolve Clark into one coherent image. 'I am so hammered.'

He and Clark were sitting in a corner of the barn, out of the way of most of the drunken revelry.

'Count yourself lucky,' said Clark dejectedly. 'I've had six bottles,' he gestured at the row of empties lying on the floor, 'and I'm as sober as a judge.'

'Ah, man. That's harsh,' Pete conceded, as he tried to maintain an upright position.

'No kidding,' said Clark bitterly. 'I have to say,' as he looked round at the drunken antics of his comrades, 'I'm feeling quite left out.'

'Well,' frowned Pete in deep thought, 'try drinking some more.'

'Pete, I hardly think drinking more than six bottles is gonna make any difference. I just have to face it – one of my less useful powers is a profound tolerance to alcohol.'

'Wait right there,' said Pete, brightening up. 'I tried one earlier that had a bit of a kick to it – let me see if I can find it.' And he staggered off into the middle of the barn, sloshing his mug as he went. Clark rolled his eyes.

Minutes later Pete lurched back with a bottle in his free hand.

'Here, take a swig on that,' he suggested.

Clark held the unmarked bottle at arm's length and regarded it. To his suddenly suspicious mind it appeared to be suffused with a distinctly green hue.

**A/N:** _Blimey, it's been a while. Sorry about that. I actually had to go to work last week – Oh the horror. I wonder what's in that bottle, hmmm? Let's just say I'm looking forward to writing chapter six._


	6. Six

Don't worry, I haven't died. Just been very busy. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Enjoy!

****

**Six.**

'Strewth, mate!' said Fennel. 'Got a bit of a kick to it, eh?'

'Indeed,' agreed Ivrogne. 'Yet it lacks a certain… subtlety. It iz a little bland.'

'Temperature was too high,' said Reynolds, holding his glass up to the light. 'The reaction was more exothermic than we anticipated. We need something more potent than glycol for cooling. The fermentation didn't yield enough acidity.'

'Still,' conceded Fennel, 'not bad for an afternoon's work, don't you think?'

'Oh yes,' agreed Reynolds, 'although I would recommend using a stronger, reinforced vat in future. We were lucky this time.'

'No shit!' said Fennel. 'I thought it was gonna blow. It was making more noise than my wife after a curry.'

*     *     *

'Pete, does this look green to you?' said Clark, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.

'Clark, chill out man. So what if it does? You really think it's got meteor juice in it? In France? Dude – stop being paranoid and drink the damn thing before I start sobering up!'

'Well, okay,' conceded Clark, and took a generous glug from the bottle. Pete was right, of course. There were no meteor rocks in France. He was just being paranoid. The wine tasted… interesting, with a kind of metallic aftertaste. Not bad, thought Clark. He took another gulp. And another. And then drained the bottle.

'Mmmm, s'good stuff!' he announced, a smile spreading inexorably across his face. 'But I don't think it worked.'

'Oh I think it did, Clark,' grinned Pete. 'I can see you swaying.'

'I am not!' retorted Clark indignantly.

'Are so!'

'Listen, Pete,' said Clark, getting to his feet. 'I am not drunk!' And in one perfectly smooth movement he stood up, leaned back, and collapsed backwards onto a three-inch thick oak table, shattering it into splinters.

'Hmmm,' mused Clark as he lay on his back gazing up at the ceiling, which wouldn't keep still no matter how much he rolled his eyes. 'Seems you were right after all, Pete.'

'Now _that's_ what I'm talking about!' chuckled Pete.

Meanwhile, Chloe was enjoying another performance by the impromptu band. This time someone had constructed a new instrument out of an assortment of variously filled wine bottles and a stick. It had taken some considerable effort and a lot of consumption to get the tuning right, but the band now benefited from the addition of a makeshift xylophone. 

Without realising how or why she'd started, Chloe found herself dancing with a group of other kids to the raucous music. It wasn't the kind of music she'd normally be interested in – a kind of improvised country and western hoedown with grunge undertones – but for some reason that didn't seem to matter at all. It was almost involuntary. In fact, she thought as she waved her arms and bounced up and down, it would probably require some effort to actually stop.

As she glanced around her, in between bounces, she began to notice that everyone was pairing up into couples. She figured she probably ought to do the same, but whom should she find? Pete? Clark?

Clark…

She suddenly felt a knot in her stomach, which grew so heavy that she physically sagged. She left the dance-floor and retrieved her mug for a much-needed drink. What was she doing? What was she thinking? A couple of swigs resolved her thoughts into coherence.  It was about time she did something about Clark. She would tell him, face-to-face, exactly how she felt. It didn't matter what he said. She just had to tell him. Maybe she'd be subtle, and ask him to dance. Maybe she'd just tell him she'd loved him since the day they first met. Either way was good. It was all good. Everything would be fine as long as she just told him.

She conceded that the alcohol fizzing up her brain might be affecting her judgement slightly, but frankly she didn't give a damn. 

She scanned the room for her target, which was tricky because she was no longer sure how many rooms there were. Suddenly she heard a loud crash from the far end of the room. She peered into the distance and managed to spot two Clarks lying in a pile of wooden shards. Eyes wide, she pushed her way past the revellers and staggered towards both of them. As she approached they resolved themselves into one slightly wobbly Clark.

'Oh my god, Clark,' she gasped. 'What happened? Are you alright?'

'Uh…' said Clark, peering up at her. 'Chloe…?'

'Yes, Clark. It's me. Are you okay?' That was a hefty looking table. For a moment Chloe thought he must have broken his back.

Clark grinned sheepishly up at her. 'I appear to be the slightest bit drunk, I'm afraid.' He explained. 'Help me up, would you?'

'Of course, of course,' she gushed, and grabbed the hand he offered her. She pulled with all her might, and succeeded in falling directly on top of him.

'Oops!' she grinned, their faces inches apart.

'Oops indeed, ' Clark grinned back.

Chloe tried to focus on his eyes. As she saw it, she had two choices now. She could either lean forward and kiss him or she could vomit in his face.

Oh no!

The horror!

She was NOT going to hurl. Not now. No way. Nuh uh.

She clamped her mouth shut, held her breath, and staggered backwards out of Clark's way. The nausea subsided and she breathed a sigh of relief. That was too close. She glanced behind her to see Pete smirking at her.

'Come on, Pete,' she commanded. 'Help me drag Clark to his feet.'

Between them they managed to heave him upright. Clark flopped down onto a bail of straw next to Chloe. He put his arm round her shoulders.

'So, Chloe,' he slurred. 'Wassup?'

'Oh, y'know,' she blushed. 'Not a lot. Been dancing.' She suddenly felt very hot, and slyly undid another button on her blouse. 'D'you wanna dance, Clark?' she suggested as casually as she dared.

'Maybe in a minute,' said Clark. 'Let's just sit here for a while. Hey Pete, find us another bottle of the green stuff, would you?'

'Sure, Clark. Anything you say,' said Pete, rolling his eyes.

Chloe watched him leave, smiled up at Clark and rested her head on his shoulder. She felt so comfortable and warm. In a minute she'd tell him everything. But first she was going to close her eyes, just for a moment.

Clark was feeling pleasant. A soft, fluffy blanket of contentment cushioned his brain. As he moved his head from side to side the world took a moment to catch up.  The straw bale felt like a velvet armchair. And Chloe…

He wondered briefly where Lana was, and then he wondered why he cared. She'd seemed distant ever since they'd got here. It could be that she hadn't wanted to come, or it could be that he, Clark, had been paying her less attention. He would have tried to think about it more but… 

What was he just thinking about? Something about…

Where was Pete? They'd better not be running out of wine already. Why had that last bottle affected him so much? Perhaps he just had a high threshold of tolerance. Maybe that last bottle was the last straw, so to speak. Odd that it was green, though. What if…

What was he just thinking about? Something green…

Where did his thoughts keep disappearing to? Why couldn't he even follow a simple train of…

And Chloe. He seemed to have his arm round her. She was very soft. He liked that. Softness was good. And she was his friend. He could count on her. She was always there for him, with her curves and her softness.

His mind lurched back to last year's Spring Formal. They'd been so happy together at the dance, until he'd deserted her. Of course, she understood why he'd had to, hadn't she. She'd told him it was okay. But was it? With a sudden inexplicable clarity of thought he wondered if she'd really meant it when she suggested they just stay friends. What if it was a test? What if she'd been hoping he'd disagree?

More importantly, why was he thinking about this now?

Because she was here next to him. Because he was drunk. Because, despite or even as a result of that, he was thinking more clearly than he had in a long time. 

He made up his mind. He would finish the dance they'd started so long ago. But first he had to tell her how he felt.

'Chloe?' he murmured. 'Chloe, I… I think I…'

But she was asleep.

'Here, Clark! Get this down you,' called Pete, throwing a bottle at Clark. Clark caught it without looking up.

'Thanks, Pete,' he said quietly.

'Hey man, don't you go to sleep now. The night is young, my friend. We're going on a mission.'

'A mission?' said Clark, looking up.

'A munchies mission,' explained Pete. 'I'm hungry. Is Chloe coming?'

'Er… No. she's asleep.'

'Lightweight!' Chuckled Pete. 'Come on, man. Let's go!'

'Uh, but I, er… I was gonna…' began Clark, looking back and forth from Chloe to Pete. 'Oh, alright. Come on then.'

He took a draught from his bottle and followed Pete out into a night full of adventure…

*     *     *

Pain.

He had no name. He had no body. He had no identity or sense of self. All he had was the pain.

Wait.

Back up there a second.

He had to have a body, because he had the pain. And now he thought about it he realised there were two distinct areas of pain. As he tried to evaluate which was the more intense – the pounding, vice-like agony in his head, or the writhing torture threatening to burst his bladder – his faculties gradually returned to him.

He opened his eyes and then shut them immediately. Well it was daylight, and he was in the barn inside his sleeping bag. He would worry about how and why he was lying on one of the rafters fifteen feet above the ground later.

He tried to remember what had happened the previous night. Everything after his exit from the barn with Pete was frustratingly hidden from him. He was having trouble thinking in a straight line, let alone recalling anything through that dark, painful fog. He had a feeling, unfortunately, that it would gradually come back to him as the day wore on.

He decided to experiment moving one of his limbs slightly. He shifted his right leg to one side, causing fresh ecstasies of pain to flash through his temples.

He cried out in agony.

'Dude…' came a weak voice from below. It belonged to Pete.

'Pete?' Croaked Clark.

'Oh man my head,' groaned Pete. He looked up. 'Clark? How the hell did you get up there?'

'Don't ask me.'

Pete tried to struggle into a sitting position. He paused, and opened up his sleeping bag.

'Right… We're in the middle of rural France, okay? So where the hell did I get this?' He said, and pulled out a bright orange traffic cone.

'You think that's bad?' said Clark, looking in his own sleeping bag. 'What about this then?' And pulled out a life-size solid stone replica of the Venus De Milo.

'Hahahah,' laughed Pete. And then continued laughing.

Suddenly he stopped. His face fell.

'Oh my god,' he said slowly.

'What?' said Clark, looking down in concern.

Pete looked up at Clark in dismay, his head swaying gently.

'Clark… I'm still hammered.'


	7. Seven

**Seven.**

'What do you mean you're still drunk?'

'I mean I'm still bloody well drunk, mate. That's what I mean.'

Come to think of it, mused Reynolds, so was he. He was lying on Ivrogne's couch. Fennel was spread-eagled on the floor. Instead of the customary hangover and disturbing lucidity of the morning after, he was still having trouble keeping the room still. His thoughts weren't all flowing the same way. His limbs wouldn't respond quite as they should.

Yup. He was still sozzled all right. This was not good. Where was Ivrogne? He hoped to hell and back this wasn't a permanent side-effect of the new wine. That would be tremendously inconvenient.

Suddenly a dreadful thought hit him like a brick.

Holy shit the goddamn kids!

*     *     *

What was the time? Clark looked at his watch to discover the face was shattered and the hands were stuck. He had no idea how that had happened. He'd managed to extricate himself from both his sleeping bag and the rafters, an operation that had left a Clark-shaped impression in the ground and an even more acute pain in his head. He felt like he was going to vomit; yet curiously his stomach already seemed quite empty.

Pete was insisting that he was still drunk, and Clark was inclined to believe him. He looked distinctly unsteady and somewhat distant, as if his higher brain functions were on vacation and only phoning in to check the house was still there.

Clark himself was most assuredly not drunk. He almost wished he still were. Anything would be better than this mind-buggering hangover he was experiencing.

With the clarity that his current sobriety afforded him his thoughts turned to the green wine. It had definitely had a profound effect on him. He'd felt absolutely nothing until he'd had that first bottle. And now Pete was suffering apparently permanent inebriation. There must be a connection with the meteor rocks somehow.

Come to think of it, Reynolds had always acted as if bringing the class to France was a chore – even though it was his own idea. What if the class trip had been a cover? Perhaps Reynolds was smuggling meteor rocks into France. Now he thought about it, Clark remembered that Reynolds had once been chastised for setting up a home brewing kit in his classroom (purely in the interests of science, he'd claimed). Could it be that he'd found a way to mess about with the brewing process by involving meteor rocks somehow? It seemed absurd, but then so did a lot of things that happened in Smallville. Where was Chloe when you needed her? She'd figure it all out, like she always did.

Hang on – where _was_ Chloe?

She was not in the barn, which worried Clark. If she'd wandered off while drunk she could have got into all kinds of trouble. And if she was _still_ drunk…

'Pete, do you remember anything happening with Chloe last night?'

'Lassnight?' slurred Pete.

'Yes, last night.'

'What happened last night?'

'No, I'm asking _you_ what happened.'

'When?'

'Last night.'

'What?'

Clark gave up. Pete was clearly devoting all his runtime to tying his shoelaces. He would be of no further use until he'd finished.

*     *     *

'Muh?'

Chloe sat up, wide-eyed, brain buzzing. Wow, that coffee had really done the trick. She didn't feel the slightest bit… Oh wait, yes she did. Except now she felt simultaneously dopey and on high alert. Not, all things considered, a vast improvement.

She was sitting at a table in the café-bar, which, apparently, never closed. She vaguely remembered waking up in the barn to find Clark and Pete had disappeared. She'd gone out looking for them and had wandered into the village, and had ended up in the café hoping that a few rounds of coffee would help clear her head.

Something nagged at her memory. A conversation. Had she been talking to someone, or had it been a dream? It must have been a dream because she was talking about meteor rocks, in English, to a strange man. That was too weird to have been real.

She hoisted herself off her chair, staggered up to the bar and ordered herself another coffee.

*     *     *

Having tied Pete's shoelaces for him, Clark left the barn with Pete in tow. The morning sun struck him like a dagger. He winced.

'Hey, Clark,' said Pete. 'Didn't this barn used to be made of wood?'

'Yeah, so?' said Clark, hand shielding his eyes.

'So why's this wall pebble-dashed?'

Clark looked round slowly.

'Um, that's not pebble-dash, Pete.' He suddenly realised why he felt so empty this morning.

They continued on in silence towards the main farmhouse. Clark wanted to use his X-ray vision to scope for Chloe, but he could barely bring himself to open his eyes more than halfway as it was.

As they approached, Clark heard a loud crash of crockery and some cursing, followed by the harsh whine of an electric motor, possibly from a power drill. He and Pete ran up to the door and pushed it open. To the left, a door was open into the living room, where Reynolds was lying on a couch.

Upon seeing them he sat up abruptly and wavered slightly.

'What're you kids doing here?' he slurred. 'You'd better not've been drinking last night!' He waved a finger reproachfully at them.

'Who, us sir? No sir!' exclaimed Pete, stifling a giggle. Clark ignored him.

'We want to know what you put in that wine, Mr Reynolds,' he said in his most authoritative voice. 'We know it has something to do with the meteor rocks.'

Reynolds blanched, but before he could say anything a loud voice interrupted him.

'Ah, crikey that's done the trick,' shouted Fennel, walking in from the adjacent kitchen. 'Strewth, mate,' he said to Clark, 'you look a little worse for wear, son. Bit of a hangover, eh?'

Clark looked him up and down.

'You're not drunk like the others?'

'Nah, mate. Bit touch and go there for a minute, but there's nothing like a bit of the old home remedy to sort you out in the morning.'

Clark and Pete boggled at each other.

**_A/N:_**_ I want more reviews this time, damnit! Heheh. Nah, but it would be nice to know if people are still reading this after all this time. I'm pretty sure it'll be finished soon, so you shouldn't have to wait much longer._


	8. Eight

**Eight.**

'Home remedy?' said Clark sceptically.

'Hangover cure. Sobers you up an' all. Hair of the dog, ground coffee beans, raw egg, banana – you know. All that stuff.'

Clark didn't know whether the man was insane, still drunk or merely Australian.

'What?' he said. 'What? Hair of the dog?'

'You know – "have a hair of the dog that bit you."'

Clark X-rayed the man's skull to make sure both hemispheres of his brain were still there.

'Standard hangover cure, mate,' continued Fennel. 'Mix in a little of last night's poison into the brew. Works a treat.'

'Oh right,' said Clark carefully. 'Of course.' Well, as hangover cures went, it seemed to have worked on Fennel – although Clark was still not sure whether brain damage was a natural side-effect. And since the meteor rock wine caused the permanent inebriation in the first place, it didn't seem unreasonable to expect the cure to involve a similar ingredient.

'Here, you and your mate look as if you could do with some. Step into my office.' Fennel gestured towards the kitchen. Clark and Pete followed him in. The room was a mess, with a bizarre array of ingredients that Clark concluded must have gone into the "cure" – onions, peppers, tomatoes, spices, vegetable oil, and a shiny new bottle of green. On the middle of the counter was a food mixer, the sound of which Clark had heard on his approach to the building. Fennel produced a jug of viscous greenish brown sludge, two glasses and a grin.

'Drink it up, chaps. It'll do you a world of good.'

Clark and Pete exchanged glances.

'If I'm drinking that, it's going down in one,' said Pete. 'I don't want to taste it for any longer than I have to.'

Clark had to agree with him. They both gulped back Fennel's home remedy. As the last of it flushed through his oesophagus Clark was suddenly crippled by acute stomach pains. He felt like he was being stabbed in the gut.

And then the memories flooded back.

*     *     *

'Lana, wake up.'

Chloe had been trying to wake Lana, whom she'd found curled up between two bales of straw, for some time now. She contemplated the idea of slapping her in the face, which would result in the twofold benefit of waking her and providing Chloe with no small amount of amusement. 

She'd meandered back to the barn after establishing that no amount of coffee would sober her up. She'd only been drunk once before, at a thoroughly forgettable house party, but she was fairly sure it wasn't supposed to last this long.

A handful of people had woken by now and, judging by their erratic movements, they too were still under the influence. Chloe would have pondered the significance of this, but instead, almost involuntarily, chose that moment to slap Lana about the face.

Lana muttered something inaudible, frowned and opened her eyes. She looked mildly puzzled for a few seconds, until a look of horror splashed itself across her features. She clutched her mouth with one hand and used the other to stagger to her feet, whereupon she bolted for the door.

'Lana…?' began Chloe, wondering if she'd perhaps slapped her too hard. Her fears were somewhat allayed by the sound of dainty retching from behind the slats of the barn wall. Chloe could not resist a small chuckle.

'Poor girl can't hold her liquor,' she mused. Although now she thought about it, her own stomach was feeling more than a little unsettled. She tried to calm herself. 'Deep breaths; pleasant thoughts; under no circumstances picture greasy food…'

_Dammit!_

Chloe staggered out to join Lana.

*     *     *

Clark found the two girls sitting cross-legged on the ground outside the barn, clutching their heads in silence. He had with him a large decanter of Fennel's home remedy. Pete trailed along behind him, gripping his temples.

'Oh god,' he moaned. 'Oh god oh god oh god. Stop the pain.'

Clark himself was feeling fine, if a little tired. The initial pain had worn off after a couple of minutes, leaving him with an almost perfect recollection of the previous night's events.

Quite why he'd felt it would be a good idea to give Pete a piggyback ride to Nice was still a mystery to him, although he was surprised to find its Mediterranean beach comprised of pebbles instead of yellow sand. He'd apparently challenged Pete to a cliff-diving contest, and he thanked god he'd had the presence of mind to catch him when he'd agreed.

He was surprised to find that he'd somehow learnt the entire French language in one night. He guessed that wasn't something that happened to most people on a drunken night out.

The origin of the Venus De Milo statue was no longer a mystery, but he decided to push _that_ story to the back of his mind.

'Morning ladies,' he said excessively cheerfully. 'Feeling a bit worse for wear, are we?'

'I am not,' began Chloe, glaring up at Clark through her tousled hair, 'in the best of moods.'

'Want another drink?' Clark grinned. Despite himself, he was enjoying this.

Lana raised her bloodshot eyes and gave Clark a look which, had she possessed Clark's powers, would have burned a hole in his head.

'Heheh,' laughed Clark. 'No, seriously. Drink this – it'll do you good.'

'Yeah,' agreed Pete. 'It's a hangover cure. Unfortunately if you're still drunk it only sobers you up. The hangover you have yet to look forward to.'

'Perfect,' said Chloe. 'Just what we need. More pain. Well, give it here then. Better get this over with.'

Clark poured them each a glass of sludge and left Pete in charge while he went into the barn to distribute the cure to the rest of the drunkards.

*     *     *

'I can't go back.'

Reynolds had decided his best course of action was to wallow in self-pity. His plan to get rich from the superwine was clearly a failure. Asskick would never allow him to return to Smallville High. And Ivrogne… Well, Ivrogne was not pleased with the state of his property after surveying the exploits of Reynolds' class.

In fact, he'd been quite adamant that the kids were to leave immediately.

'Well I hope you like crepes and croissants,' said Fennel.

*     *     *

The aeroplane climbed through the cold French atmosphere. The atmosphere inside was one of contemplative silence.

'Thank god I fell asleep before I made a complete fool of myself in front of Clark,' thought Chloe.

'I can't believe I slept for nineteen hours straight,' thought Lana.

'Damn it my shoe still stinks,' thought Virginia.

'God damn! I stink!' thought Trevor.

'I feel cheated,' said Clark.

'How do you mean?' asked Pete.

'Don't get me wrong. I'm glad everything turned out all right. But _I'm_ usually the one who saves everyone. I didn't do anything this time. That Fennel guy fixed it all. _He_ was the hero.'

'Bloody Australians,' muttered Pete with a grin.

**THE END.**

**_A/N:_**_ Well that's all, folks. At least for now. I have another story in the works, which kind of leads on from this one, but only from a continuity point of view. It's not a comedy so there won't be much laughter, but hopefully it'll be entertaining. I won't be posting it for some time yet, because I want to get most of it ready before I start posting – no more month-long delays between chapters next time!_

_I hope y'all enjoyed this little adventure. Reviews, as always, are most welcome. Thank you to all those who have stuck with it. Your patience is much appreciated._

**_A:_**_ Lana has made a brief reappearance for this final chapter. It may be noted that I am not a Lana fan._

**_KT:_**_ I certainly am. ;D_


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